


Quarantine

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 12:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18031415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: Shorter knows better to ever suggest that he thinks about Ash when the stars at night feel like a thousand eyes judging him for dark, desperate things.[Written for Day 3 of#BF Smut Week, for the prompt "Masturbation".]





	Quarantine

**Author's Note:**

> Translated into Russian [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7997102), with my permission, courtesy of [@Stacy_Klub](https://twitter.com/stacy_klub).

He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself.

Ash is agonizingly beautiful.

He bites his lip as his mind helpfully supplies details: full lips with corners quirked in the ghost of a smirk, hair the color of angel dust and skin too warm, too freckled and rosy to be porcelain, but it’s better, because he can see the color rise in Ash’s cheeks when he’s embarrassed.

He wonders how Ash might look under different circumstances, when his lips aren’t wrapped around a straw and slick with soda. Ash’s lips are fucking perfect and kissable ( _probably better than a girl’s_ , he thinks, swallowing a moan) and he shudders at the thought of tasting them for himself, nipping and biting at them and feeling Ash’s tongue flick against his.

Shorter pretends that the heat snaking around his belly isn’t arousal, that his hand isn’t currently shoved in his boxers and wrapped around the tangible reminder of how much Ash unsettles him.

Ash terrifies him sometimes; it’s easier for him to kill than not to. He can still remember his icy, inhuman giggle, the genuine surprise with which he looked at the broken pool stick. His hands had trembled, and Shorter had met enough fucked-up kids in and out of juvie to know that it wasn’t from fear. He can remember seeing blood splatter on Ash’s cheek from a bullet fired a point-blank range, at how easily Ash could twist a man’s arm after coaxing him close enough to reach.

Sometimes the terror morphs into something he’d sooner swallow poison than admit to. Sometimes Ash’s eyes are alight with violent pleasure, knuckles painted crimson and face streaked with blood and dirt, and Shorter has to fight the urge to lick his wounds. Sometimes, when he and Ash spar, he loses only because the sight of Ash — glistening with sweat and almost high on bloodlust — is enough to make him dizzy. There’s always a moment when Ash’s knee is pressed against his back; sparks erupt near the base of his spine and he thanks countless gods that Ash can’t see his face when it happens.

There’s always a moment when he can smell Ash’s shampoo and sweat, can feel his hot breaths panting against his throat, the quiet puff of laughter at a victory won easily. Ash’s heat beckons to him in these moments, but Shorter knows better than to acquiesce.

Instead he bottles it, nestling glimpses of Ash’s beauty and violence like candid photographs, like forbidden contraband. He tucks those things away in a place no one can reach.

 _Not even Ash_ , he thinks. _Especially not Ash_.

He knows better to ever suggest that he thinks about Ash when the stars at night feel like a thousand eyes judging him for dark, desperate things.

Behind clenched eyelids and gritted teeth, he can pretend that Ash wouldn’t be burned alive from touch. He can pretend that the Ash he dreams about would be excited, cheeks flushed from arousal rather than fear or rage.

Shorter peruses those things he hid away, a veritable feast of sight and sound and texture, technicolor memory with heightened contrasts. In the icy A/C of his bedroom, memories of Ash’s warmth sear his skin; his breath feels like steam.

The stars look on impassively as Shorter’s hand traces a familiar circuit along heated flesh; the wave of pleasure that builds feels like a melody he’s heard countless times, rising tide followed by merciful plateaus. He can feel the telltale sensation behind his belly button, a kind of descent that reminds him of cresting the peak of a roller coaster; the locus of his desire feels buoyant, untethered.

He thinks of Ash’s quiet laughter and the way his voice becomes rich and suggestive. He runs a thumb along the slit, shivering as his body convulses with a spasm of pleasure. The friction between his hand and his cock dissipates; he can hear how wet he is, how easily he can stroke himself to completion.

_I wonder what Ash would look like if I did this for him._

Perfect, probably. He didn’t like to think about why.

But Shorter wants Ash to be messy and unpresentable. He wants Ash to be able to let himself bask in pleasure without having to think about the silhouette his body forms or how to control his facial expression. He wants Ash to feel pleasure in a way that makes his toes curl; Shorter imagines running his tongue along Ash’s cock and gasps as he imagines Ash’s quiet moan of pleasure, how he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from thrusting further.

Shorter would let him, of course. Shorter would do anything he asked, anything he was afraid to ask for, and if feeling how perfectly his cock fits in Shorter’s throat is what Ash wants, then he’ll do it.

Anything.

Shorter whimpers as he imagines it, Ash consumed by well-earned greed, lust with no other purpose than to be satisfied. He’s under no delusions that it would taste like cream or honey or countless other stupid descriptors he’d read in Nadia’s paperback novels.

Ash would taste the way he smells, he thinks, salty and slightly bitter as Ash’s breaths became heavier, as his fingers would begin to curl in Shorter’s hair.

Shorter begins to pump faster, a low whine in the back of his throat as he feels his own climax approaching with alarming speed, as he imagines Ash finishing in his mouth with a sharp cry of his name that pushes him over the edge.

Shorter wishes that the resulting warmth was from Ash’s body heat trickling into his veins, bodies flush against one another and buzzing with drowsiness. He wishes he could run his fingers through Ash’s hair, could find some way to articulate the turbulent, tender things that dance within him whenever Ash is near.

Ash would probably let him try. He can imagine with nauseating clarity the way Ash’s eyes would darken and mouth would twist into a practiced smirk. He’s seen Ash do it before and had vowed at that moment to be the one person for whom Ash would never need to debase himself.

It’s because Ash would let him that he keeps such things within the safe confines of dreams and the watchful gaze of the heavens, in a place where Ash can’t be hurt.


End file.
